weekly women´s gathering

It is Tuesday afternoon and I am heading southwest on one of Managua’s crowded public buses. Riding past hundreds of houses, the noises fill my ears; Loud vehicles, people laughing, shouting, kids playing, cars honking, birds singing, dogs barking. There are walking vendors selling tortillas, fruit, and cashews, singing various tunes that let people know what they are selling. Even if there were a hundred tortilla venders, each one would have their own distinct melody. Others walk along the sidewalks, shouting out their products for sale or exhibiting them on cardboard displays. Remote controls, rat poison, cell phone cables, plastic bags of cold water, windshield wipers from China, knockoff Rolex watches and Armani sunglasses, hair clips, handkerchiefs and homemade candies are all part of helping families get by and earn enough for their daily bread.

Anticipating my stop several minutes early, I swim through the dozens of people to the back door of the yellow school bus. I quickly learned not to be timid when pushing towards the back after a few times of not making it off in time. Walking an extra mile to get where I needed in the tropical heat was a lesson learned rapidly. When the bus is slowing down, but not nearly close to a full stop, the rusty door slams open and I begin stepping down towards the street. A slight hesitation often involves getting hit by the door or nearly falling down when the driver pulls away with one foot on the bus and the other in the air. I take a deep breath and start walking. There is a large Wal-Mart owned grocery store in front of the bus stop. Several stoplights help guide the city traffic in and out each day. I pass a large elementary school where the only visible part is a white brick wall that surrounds the building. A few blocks further, just before one of the roads turns into a curvy highway, I take a right and go down a hill onto a rocky dirt road. Not too many cars make their way in there. Barbed wire attached to wooden poles in the ground make up the fence in front of my destination.

At the top of a small hill sits the house of one of the families of the church. Without an official Lutheran church building in that neighborhood, they have offered their humble home as a space of worship. Pastor Katia goes out there every Sunday afternoon to give the sermon and service. My task there has been to lead the ‘gender’ ministry meetings on Tuesday afternoons. Gender is the adult program and makes up one of four ministries in which the work of the church is carried out (the others being children, pre-teens, and youth). Beginning as the women’s ministry, it was changed to gender to allow a space for adult men. They are few and far between in a largely women and youth dominated church, but they are more than welcome to participate, and some communities have male adults as very active members.

For the past few months, I have been leading a Bible study at their request. At our first meeting, I asked the 8-10 women present how they would like to spend their time, given that we would be meeting weekly. Many of the women had expressed interest in studying the Bible because they had heard many stories, but did not understand what it all meant. Complicated words, an old language structure not commonly used in Latin America, and a different context and era made the texts challenging. So we go through various Biblical stories each week, looking at them with a gender lens. What was society like at the time? What were the customs and traditions of the people? What were the roles of women and men? What was life like for Maria, given that she was likely a very young teenager when she gave birth to Jesus? How can we relate all of these stories to our daily lives? What can we learn from them? Each week we break down a different text and learn just a little bit more about the lives of the ordinary people who became part of a not so ordinary story.

I arrive a bit early and greet the family members who are present, and some of the women that have started to gather for our meeting. Many of these women are the same people that sell fruits and vegetables and tortillas to make a living. Most of them are single mothers with large families. Most of them began having their kids before their fifteenth birthdays. Some of their adult kids are working and contributing to the family, and some not, but everyone still lives at home and needs to eat. Their younger children, or in many cases grandkids left in their care, are most likely in school, hoping to make it past primary school. There are of course very bright students who have overcome numerous obstacles and are studying in universities. Some have moved out of the area to work, but those that stay are very at-risk. The area is filled with delinquency, violence, and gang activity. With over half of the country’s population under- or un-employed, a lack of jobs perpetuates the poverty in which these families live. Drugs and alcohol become easily available to children at a very young age, and the challenges and problems that come up on a daily basis are countless.

Tuesday afternoons are a time where the women of this community gather together in friendship, solidarity, and the love of God. This particular day, we have decided to take a break from our usual studies and have a more spiritual moment. We burn incense and have relaxing music playing in the background. We close our eyes and try to take a moment for ourselves, to reflect upon our lives and look out into the future. In communities like these, where difficulties and worries abound, we take a moment to offer our prayers in silence. One particular woman tells me that if we were to begin talking about our problems with each other, we could go on for days. That is why we turn to a higher power, write them down, and burn them in a large kettle. We pass out slips of paper and pencils for each one of us to write down our concerns and requests. One woman asks me to do her the favor of writing them down. She never learned to read or write. I dictate her words for her as she writes with her mind. The hand that writes belongs to a different body, but thoughts are still the same. One by one, we put our prayers in the kettle and try to enjoy the blessings in life, rather than concentrate on the difficulties. They are joyful, comforted, and know that they have friends in their neighborhood as well as above with whom they can confide. We close our day in prayer and the women get ready to head back to their daily lives.

A couple of the kids from the neighborhood accompany me down the hill where the house sits, past the barbed wire poles and up the dirt road that leads back to the curvy highway, We walk past the quiet, empty school building, now that it is getting dark. We turn left and see the stoplights. Many of the vendors have gone home, and some are still around, trying to look for last minute shoppers. The noises have faded to the background as we stand in front of the Wal-Mart grocery store waiting for my bus. The oldest of the kids, a very bright 12 year old, tells me about his schooling and asks me if corruption exists in the US like it does in Nicaragua. He tells me about the job he just got helping clean vegetables at a local market. About how he divides the dollar he makes each afternoon after class between his mother, his school fees, his brother and his cousin and how he usually has enough to buy himself a piece of candy or two. We talk about the excitement of Christmas and even set off small firecrackers, as many people do during the month of December. My bus pulls in and I jump on almost as fast as I had gotten off a few hours earlier. Passing by all the people, the noises, the homes, the stores, the dogs, the students and workers finished for the day, and I am on my way home. Everyone goes back to their busy lives, but we´ve taken a moment to refresh ourselves. We have enough energy to finish the day and get ready for the next. We feel just a little bit lighter. A little bit more relaxed. A little more at peace.

Dos Cerros Trade School for Women

For the last few months I have been going to the church´s small trade school called ¨Dos Cerros¨ every Wednesday. I pay my twelve and a half cents (in US dollars) to take a public bus from my neighborhood to one of the Managua bus stations, and then from there take a mini-bus to get to the school for fifty cents. The bus drops me off on the main road, and the school is located maybe a quarter mile off of the highway between Managua and Masaya. They have two teachers that give multiple classes throughout the week. They offer hairstyling and cutting, manicure-pedicure classes, baking and cooking, and various types of sewing classes. The school is made up of all women, from teenagers to grandmothers. Some are learning their first profession and others want to expand on skills they already have. Once they have completed their courses, they will be able to find jobs in sewing factories, larger bakeries, hair salons, or they could work out of their homes. I admire each of these women that dedicate much of their time and energy towards teaching and learning new professions. Each one sacrifices a lot to be able to take courses. They need to pay their monthly fees, as well as their materials, and some of them walk from very far distances in order to get to the school. Their dedication is admirable, and I often wonder if I were in their shoes if I would be able to do the same.

Alicia, for example, is a 22 year old that decided that she wanted to learn how to bake. This was something that she was interested in, and would help to open up job opportunities in the future. The economy all over the world is going through difficulties so every additional skill that you have is valuable. Her class, which began about six months ago, started out with 6 or 8 students, but she is now the only one left. The large outdoor ceramic oven is heated by wood. Being in a semi-rural area, there is firewood available, but the quality is not the greatest and when burning, it tends to create more smoke than heat. So Alicia needs to get wood from another area. Across the highway, and several miles away, a very distant neighbor was selling some. So, awhile back, Marta the baking teacher, Alicia, and myself, set off to go buy firewood. Not knowing exactly where the place was located, we set off to ask people along the way. We never would have imagined just how far away this place was. We walked for about three hours just to get there, and arrived at a pile of wood, sunburned and exhausted. Once we got there, the man who was selling it said that he didn´t have a vehicle and that we would have to go hire somebody to pick it up and take it to the school. We returned to the school that afternoon, and then Alicia arranged transportation and went to pick it up later. The outdoor oven has a tin roof that covers the area, but being in a volcanic region, the heavy air causes the metal to rust within just a couple years. The holes in the roof cause rain water to enter the oven and it is difficult for the wood to catch fire. Sometimes it can take up to four or five hours just to get the oven started, not to mention the wood burning. Because of these issues, the other members of the class either stopped going, or switched to one of the sewing classes.

I have really learned a lot about dedication from these women at the school, and have a great appreciation for the sacrifices they make in order to complete their coursework. It makes me realize that in difficult times we need to struggle more. People throughout the world are experiencing sacrifices, having to cut back, and are going back to school for more training. In Nicaragua, those sacrifices are different than in other parts of the world, but are just as important for survival. Alicia´s a tough one for sticking it out, and when she gets her certificate for the course at graduation in November, she´ll really deserve it.